


Becoming Human

by sparkly_butthole, TheFriendlyPigeon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Canon-Typical Violence, Growing Up, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pure Love, Reaper!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25330231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/pseuds/sparkly_butthole, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFriendlyPigeon/pseuds/TheFriendlyPigeon
Summary: Reapers don’t have names. They don't have friends, either.Bucky and Steve disagree.Written for the 2020 Stucky Reverse Big Bang!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 106
Collections: Stucky Reverse Bang 2020





	Becoming Human

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to my 2020 Stucky Reverse Big Bang fic. It's sweet and cute and I hope it makes you smile, because goodness knows we need some more of that in this crazy world. 
> 
> Big thank you to my beta, NurseDarry for all her hard work and encouragement through the last few years, I love you darling!
> 
> I wasn't sure if I was going to participate this year or not, but when I saw the art I just went YES THAT ONE and picked it, so thank you to my artist for making this stunning art for me to play with.

  
  
  
  
  


_ You have a new assignment.  _

The voice is loud and unforgiving, a bell rung without care in the tower of his mind. His Master’s voice, inescapable and inevitable. 

The beacon shines, a waypoint rising above the city. He follows it, unthinking, unquestioning. He was created for this purpose, and thus, he is used. Useful. A tool. 

He follows the waypoint to a hospital in Brooklyn. Dilapidated, not quite in disrepair but in need of a little TLC. Healthcare workers dash to and fro, many of them frazzled, tired, used to long hours and hard work but never quite used to losing people, never watching them hurt. Humans are unique that way. It fascinates him. 

Of course, emotions don’t work the same for him. The fae are revered and reviled alike amongst humanity, reapers especially. He watches as they flinch whenever he walks by, unaware of why they’re doing so, but knowing there is something fundamentally  _ wrong _ in their environment, nervous systems going haywire for no apparent reason. Their greatest fear summoned in their midst, unknown except by instinct.

The buzz in his head dies down once he finds the room. It’s similar to every other hospital visit he’s ever made - crying family member, IV stand, antiseptic barely covering the stench of terminal illness and decay. And for his ears only, the too-fast  _ thud-thud _ of a heartbeat, a panicked rabbit thumping against the bars of its cage, the sluggish hum of blood pushed through a weak body on the verge of collapse. 

It’s the same as every other time, up until the moment it’s not. 

In the bed lies a young boy. He can’t be more than... seven. maybe eight. Hard to tell when they’re that small and sick. He’s not underfed, by any means, just frail. 

Of course he’s frail.  _ He _ wouldn’t be there otherwise.

There’s more to the boy than meets the eye, though. A sudden, unbidden surge of molten want nearly knocks the reaper to his knees with the shock of it. There’s something... something about this kid, something that makes his nonexistent heart ache like he’s catching every human feeling at once, every emotion he’s visited upon them and then some crashing into him, icy waves against the crumbling sand of his very essence. 

He glances at what must be the boy’s mother -  _ Sarah _ , her nametag reads, a nurse who works right here at the hospital. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, but she’s beyond crying now. She’s seen death enough to recognize his knock on the door. It’s only a matter of time until her son is gone. 

He eyes her hand as it grips the boy’s and feels true sorrow for the first time. 

He turns back to the boy. Who is he? What makes him so special? Why, now, are these questions important? It’s never been a problem before. The bodies that house souls for their brief moments on Earth fail; it is in their nature to do so. He is not here to destroy them, but rather to take them home. It is his purpose. 

His hand moves, unbidden, towards the boy’s pallid face. He is made of ice, he knows, but somehow he is drawn to fire now. The fever running through the kid will melt him into something useless, and his entire purpose is to be  _ useful; _ he is a slave to his body now, can only watch with horror as, for the first time in his long existence, he  _ strengthens _ the connection between body and soul. 

They both gasp when he touches the boy, fire meeting ice, tempering each instead of dousing the spark of life left in his charge. Tempering his spiritual power like this comes as easily as taking a soul from this world has ever been. Is this what humans refer to as ‘existential crises?’

“Steve?” Sarah asks, alarm and fear and hope at war on her face. “Steve, baby?” 

Steve’s eyes open and immediately focus on his own. There’s no fear in them, only wonder and curiosity. The reaper wants to kneel, to take Steve’s tiny hand in his, to kiss his knuckles and promise him things will be okay. He’ll heal, he’ll go home with Sarah and live his life. 

Can he do those things? Can he walk out of here and not look back? 

Suddenly paranoid - that Sarah will see him, that his Master will strike him down where he stands - the reaper maneuvers his way out of the room as quickly as he can. He feels Steve’s eyes on his back even after he’s left the hospital far behind. 

  
  


***

  
  


The reaper isn’t sure what happens now. He has taken several other souls home in the handful of days since his strange actions at the hospital. New York, teeming with life, requires his attention a lot of the time; he finds that staying busy keeps his mind away from the box of questions he’d unthinkingly opened. 

He’s standing on a random street in Brooklyn a few weeks after the incident at the hospital when he hears a scuffle coming from an alley nearby. Following the sounds, he discovers the source: a familiar blond kid cornered by two much taller, older boys wearing sneers of disgust. Steve has tears and snot running down his nose, but his fists are up to protect himself and he is clearly not going to back down from whatever they are fighting over. Crazy little punk, this one is. Probably barely on his feet after his illness, and now look at him. 

“Hey!” the reaper yells against his better judgment. He steps in between them. “Pick on someone your own size!” 

One of the aggravants looks at him incredulously. “He started it!” 

The reaper looks back at Steve, keeping an eye on the other two boys. “That true?” 

“I got in their way. They were harassin’ a dog, frail little thing, probably homeless. It was just lookin’ for food an’ love. Just wants a home.” He spits. The reaper feels a surge of affection for the kid, not unlike what he’d felt at the hospital. 

He turns back to the boys, feeling weightless and heady with joy even as he lacks understanding of what’s happening to him. “That true?”

“Pssh,” the other kid says. He’s gotta be a good three or four years older than Steve, and probably fifty pounds heavier. “That thing was a nuisance, always gettin’ in everybody’s way. Ain’t nobody gonna miss it.”

“That ain’t true, and it don’t matter anyway!” Steve yells. “You can’t do that to a living being, it ain’t right.”

“Nobody wants to hear the peanut gallery, pal,” the reaper tells Steve without turning, hoping he can defuse the situation without the boy blowing it to bits. “Now either way, you think it’s okay to threaten a kid three or four years older ‘n you?”

“His ma shoulda taught him better!” 

The reaper takes a step closer, standing tall and imposing. “I think it’s your ma who shoulda taught you better,” he says, the accent coming easy to him. “Steve,” he says, “Can you go find the dog? Do you know where it ran off to?”

“I… “ It seems like Steve wants to argue for a moment, but he decides better of it. “I think so.”

“I’ll take it home with me. Run off now. I’ll take care of these idiots.” 

Steve does so, but not before turning around to look the reaper square in the face. “I don’t need you winnin’ my battles for me, just so’s we’re clear.” 

The reaper grins and mock-salutes. “I’ll teach you how to do it better,” he promises, again not knowing where those words came from, again not caring. 

The bullies in front of him are staring at him with wide eyes. Since he’s not sure what he normally looks like to humans - they can’t normally see him, after all, unless they’re on the verge of death - he isn’t sure what kind of figure he cuts. 

He decides to ask. “Do you boys like what you see?” He glances down at himself, gives himself a once-over, and what he sees is a dusty black suit, casual; a slender form hiding a strength that might surprise someone unlucky enough to get into a scuffle with him; long, dextrous fingers with scars marring the back of one hand, and forearm hair poking out the bottom of the suit arm. A man, young, virile. 

Is this what death looks like to people? Does his visage change from person to person? 

Is it odd that he’s asking these questions? Or that he’s just now getting around to it? 

Regardless of the answer, both bullies have decided against continuing the fight. The negative energy of a reaper isn’t something he can hide - he doesn’t think - and they are, at the very least, uneasy in his presence. They look at each other and take off in the opposite direction, leaving the reaper there in the alley wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now. 

The reaper sits on the sturdiest-looking box in the alley to wait for the boy and to contemplate his behavior. The ping of his Master’s summons sounds loud in his head, but he ignores it in favor of waiting for Steve. He’d promised to care for the dog, and he thinks he has the perfect family to give him to.

What he’s going to do about his budding… friendship?... with Steve, he still has no idea. 

Reapers don’t have friends.

“Hi,” Steve says a few moments later. He’s standing at the front of the alley, dog in tow. He can hardly believe the kid can carry it, even though it weighs no more than twenty pounds. The reaper takes the dog from Steve, who sighs in relief and leans against the wall. 

The reaper just stares at him, unsure of how to make friendly conversation. He’s really only good in dire situations, and then he’s mostly just good at killing people.

“Uh,” Steve starts once he’s caught his breath, “Hi. Did I… Did I see you before? You look so familiar.” 

How does he answer that? There are no rules for or against telling humans about the reapers, because what reaper in his right mind would want to divulge that secret? “I… You look familiar too, pal,” he tries with an awkward smile. 

“Why did you help me? You know I don’t need your help, right?” He sounds defensive. 

“No shit. But I don’t like seeing people hurt other people, either. I didn’t wanna stand by and watch any more than you could’ve, little punk.” 

Unexpectedly, Steve giggles. The reaper finds himself smiling more naturally. His face feels weird. 

“I guess we can be friends. Besides, you said you’d help teach me, right? What’s your name?”

Another question the reaper doesn’t know how to answer. 

“You kinda have buck teeth,” Steve continues. The reaper isn’t sure where that came from or where it’s going. “I can call you Bucky.” 

He feels his mouth, trying to imagine the layout of his teeth. Steve laughs at him. “Isn’t that a mean thing to say?” 

“Not when it’s true. ‘Sides, I like it. Makes you look distinguished.” 

The reaper - Bucky, now, he supposes with a sigh - gives him a dubious look. Steve just grabs him by the hand and skips down the road, talking about his ma and his art class and anything else Bucky might or might not want to hear about. 

About a block from Steve’s house, he stops and picks a flower from a neighbor’s yard, apparently uncaring that it’s not his garden. Bucky has no idea what kind of flower it is, just that it smells nice and is a bright pink, dazzling in the sunlight. Steve gives Bucky the flower with a shy smile even more dazzling. 

He is  _ utterly charmed  _ by this kid. 

Eventually, though, the ringing in his head gets louder, the call to fulfill his purpose too loud to ignore now. Too loud to investigate, at least - after all, he’d ignored the call to end Steve’s mortal life and nothing had come of it. So maybe the rules aren’t as clear-cut as he’d always assumed. It’s a shame the reapers don’t have a… reaper get-together of sorts, or some other way to talk to each other. The absurd vision of a dinner party comprised of reapers in suits makes him laugh out loud - has he ever done that before? Actually  _ laugh? _

It’s been a lonely existence, indeed. Maybe now he has an unlikely friend in this little punk from Brooklyn. 

Bucky the reaper rolls that idea around in his head as he says goodbye to the kid, and he thinks he likes it.

  
  


***

  
  


Bucky isn’t surprised when, six months later, the buzzing in his head leads him to a back alley in which none other than Steve Rogers is laid out on the ground in a heap, at death’s door. Several kids, all of whom are older and bigger than Steve, have surrounded him and are kicking him. Well, a few of them aren’t; those kids are looking around nervously, knowing that they’re on the verge of going too far and doing something they’ll never be able to take back. 

Bucky sees  _ red.  _

He can tell the instant he becomes visible to the group. The ones who are looking in his direction go stiff, and their eyes widen with fear. Good; they had better be afraid. The  _ schlick _ of his switchblade, conjured from thin air, makes them scramble. Their partners stop kicking Steve and turn around to see what the fuss is about. It isn’t long until they’re gone, too, running off to cry in their mothers’ skirts, probably. Bucky would love to follow them and give them a piece of his mind, but the buzzing is insistent, and Steve Rogers is in trouble.

“Man,” he mutters, pulling the boy into his arms and feeding him spiritual energy, “why you gotta be like this, huh? Askin’ for it, I know you.”

He’s been keeping up with Steve since the last alleyway incident, following him and showing his face on occasion. Steve’s always happy to see him, calling him  _ my Bucky _ , which makes Bucky light up from the inside. He loves this little boy for no reason he can discern, and maybe that’s what makes it so special, this unconditional bond he has with an apparently random human being. Like his soul just said  _ this one, I like _ without any input from the rest of him whatsoever. 

Steve opens his eyes after a while. He’s no longer in danger of dying in Bucky’s arms, though he’s got a nasty shiner and probably bruises all over his body. Sarah is going to have a fit. 

“Bucky?” he asks, squinting. He tries to sit up with a wince, but Bucky forces him back down into his lap.

“Don’t. Not yet. You need to relax. Do you ever relax? Is that why you get into these messes?”

Steve pouts for a second. Then he seems to think about it and scowls instead.  _ There’s my Stevie, _ Bucky thinks, fond. “Ain’t a mess, Buck. That kid was gonna hurt Nancy. _ Hurt _ her, ‘n I don’t know how far it would’ve gone. What was I supposed to do, huh?”

Bucky nods. “Oh, I know. Your little righteous ass couldn’t let that stand.” Of course, he admires Steve for that. How could he not? “But do you really want to end your life over it? What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been called here, huh? What if it was one of my brothers?”

He shouldn’t have said that. But it goes over Steve’s head anyway. “I had to do something.”

“Yeah, you did. And that something should’ve been  _ find an adult _ .”

He’s right, but he regrets his tone and his words anyway when Steve looks down in shame. 

“Kid,” he continues, softening, “your heart’s in the right place. But sometimes there are things in this world you can’t take on by yourself. How can I show you that?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve mutters, still petulant, but Bucky can tell he’s listening. If he can impart this one little bit of wisdom… maybe Steve will get to use the gift Bucky has given him twice over now. 

“Boxing lessons first,” Bucky says with a sigh, knowing it won’t be that easy, “with the understanding that you also learn when to use your fists and when to get an adult. Deal?”

Steve smiles up at him. It’s like holding the sun, and it takes Bucky’s breath away. “Sure. Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky swallows these overflowing emotions as best he can. “Any time, kiddo.”

  
  


***

  
  


Bucky’s never once talked to another reaper. Not in his centuries of existence has he talked to… well, anyone. He came into existence fully grown, knowing his purpose, his Master’s instructions more like intuition than true direction. He doesn’t know what happens to the others, if they come and go, if they’re busier during times of human strife and struggle, if they retire or just given less work. His own day-to-day activities consist of studying and understanding human behavior, but it’s never done on a schedule. He doesn’t build his day around life or death, he just meanders along until his Master’s call compels him. 

When his Master finally decides to address the issue, Bucky wonders idly whether or not it’s happened to any others. If it’s common. If they all learn to disobey eventually.

If maybe he’s defective. 

_ You are protecting the weak one _ , his Master’s voice booms. Bucky’s instinct is to throw his hands over his ears; the voice is somehow intrinsic to his mind and utterly alien, and it  _ hurts _ . Bucky hadn’t known that he  _ could _ hurt. 

“I am your faithful servant,” Bucky insists out loud.

_ You are, until you’re not, _ his Master says. There’s a layer of humor underneath the words. Bucky supposes that’s better than rage.  _ Listen to yourself _ , his Master continues.  _ Referring to yourself as ‘Bucky?’ You never needed a name before. Why now?  _

“He gave it to me,” Bucky says needlessly. 

_ And why is he important? _

_ He just is _ , Bucky thinks. 

_ You owe your existence to me, ‘Bucky.’ Why do you deny me? _

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he says eventually. It’s easier than trying to vocalize the devastating freedom of joy. 

_ I’ll leave him be. For now. But his number will come up; they all do. When that day comes, you had better be prepared to let him go.  _

Bucky can feel the presence in his mind disappear as quickly as it had come. He sighs in relief, but any relief he feels is short-lived. Or it will last as long as Steve Rogers lives, anyway. How do you say goodbye to the sun?

  
  


***

  
  


Bucky makes up a life story. Born to Winifred and George Barnes. Three sisters, oldest named Rebecca. They all look up to him to help them get through these tough times. Bucky works odd jobs, at the docks and on farms outside the city and wherever else he can get them. That’s why he’s not around much, he tells Steve.

He starts showing Steve how to fight for real whenever he can, though it’s slow going; the kid’s got the lungs of a seventy-year-old on hot days, and he’s a bag of bones shivering in the cold during the winter. Bucky does everything in his power to make sure Steve is well-fed and keeps out of trouble whenever he does manage to spend time with him. It’s the best he can do. 

Days turn to months, and months to years. Steve grows stronger and healthier as time goes on. He learns how to protect himself, even if he never quite gets the hang of picking his fights. Sometimes Bucky’s around and lends him a hand. There’s no changing the kid’s nature, he knows now; all he can do is hope he’s there when Steve needs him most. 

Bucky changes his appearance at will, gradually lessening his apparent age until Steve can’t be sure how old Bucky was when they first met. He thinks he’s got Steve fooled; can’t trust the memory of a prepubescent child, right? Bucky sure hopes so. Just because he’s spent centuries watching human behavior doesn’t mean it makes any sense to him.

The next time he disobeys his Master’s call is when Sarah dies. He utterly refuses to be anywhere but at Steve’s side for the funeral, even when the familiar buzzing starts in his head. His Master can wait; there are more important things to do, and he can shove it if he thinks otherwise. 

No grand voice appears in his mind to chastise him, but Bucky still thinks he can hear laughter anyway.

Bucky pushes the hair out of Steve’s eyes. He’s a young man now, able to care for himself without his ma and with limited assistance from Bucky, but it’s hard to leave him alone. So hard. 

So he doesn’t. He moves in, instead. Sure, it won’t be easy to explain why he needs to fly downtown at two in the morning to release a soul from this mortal coil, but it’s better than not being by Steve’s side. Now he’s made a web, layers of pretty lies just in the name of taking care of this kid who is no longer a kid. 

Because it had occurred to Bucky when he’d affectionately pushed that soft blond fringe to the side that Steve Rogers was the end of his line one way or the other; he won’t take his soul no matter the punishment he’ll receive. Another reaper will, and he’ll beg to be taken along with him.

It’s nice to have a friend. Centuries Bucky’s lived, without even interacting with another person, and here he is cohabiting with one. A reaper and his human. He should get Steve to pitch it to one of those entertainment companies that make movies. It’d be a hit. 

The five years after they become roommates are the best of Bucky’s life. 

In the sixth, Pearl Harbor falls. 

  
  


***

  
  
  


“Why are you doing this to yourself?” 

They’ve been at it for thirty minutes, through the entire walk from the park and their subsequent dinner preparations. Bucky’s boxed Steve in with logic up, down, and sideways, and still, the little punk refuses to get it through his thick fucking head that he can’t fight in a goddamned  _ war.  _

It’s never been so hard as it is now to avoid saying  _ You’d be dead twice over because of me, you fucking meathead, what’s the matter with you?  _

“Bucky, come on,” Steve says for the fifteen-millionth time, “you know it’s the right thing to do. You know me; I can’t just sit here - “

“ - and you won’t have to, plenty of jobs need doing now that the men are being sent - “

“ - and moreover, I know you. You couldn’t stand to sit by the sidelines, either.” 

Bucky drops his fork, suddenly no longer interested in food. Not that he needs it to survive, but he’s come to discover he enjoys partaking. But the thought of screams, of blood, of not just taking a soul but being unable to comfort it in its last moments - 

And Bucky was made for nothing other than to kill people. That’s the only thing he does, other than hang out with and look out for Steve Rogers. 

His whole fucking life is a farce at this point. Why is he doing this to Steve? 

Steve’s staring at him, a lopsided smile on his face. He thinks he’s won the argument. Bucky pities him, that there’s so little he’s even capable of understanding. 

Blood. The air red with it, sprays of it, oxygen painted crimson, a display meant only for the eyes of those like him. 

Pieces of people,  _ pieces _ of them, strewn all over the battlefield like rags, a display meant only for the eyes of morticians and nightwalkers. 

And pain. Unbearable, undeniable pain. Bucky feels it every time his thumb touches a soldier’s brow, when he sees the soul within and all the good and bad it’s done. How horrible those last moments, minutes, hours-days-weeks are… 

_ No, _ Bucky thinks vehemently,  _ Steve will never know what that’s like. I swear it on everything I am. _

“Pal,” he sighs, giving Steve the remainder of his dinner. Steve makes a face at the turnips but dutifully eats them anyway. “I know you want to fight. I get it. But there are other ways you can make a difference.”

“Ain’t the same.” 

“Surely you don’t think those women in factories making bullets have any less of a role to play. Or the people who make sure the news runs, that the American people know what’s going on. People, men and women both, who keep the country we love going during all this. Aren’t they just as important?”

Steve’s mouth thins. He looks away. Says nothing. 

“Why do you have to be  _ on the front line? _ ” Bucky asks, poking at it. Trying not to lose his temper. Not succeeding. “Why is it  _ that? _ ” 

Selfishly, Bucky knows he’s afraid for himself, too. If Steve goes to war, if Steve’s soul is called home… Bucky has made his decision to go with him, but he’s not ready, not when he only now understands what it means to  _ live. _

At least Bucky knows the Army will never take him. At least he’s got that on his side. 

“You volunteered, didn’t you, Buck? You must’ve thought the front lines were the best place to be, too.” 

Bucky stares down at his uniform, aghast. Why did he have to go and make this his chosen profession? Because it’s easier to lie to Steve this way? 

James Buchanan Barnes is a fucking joke-and-a-half, all right. 

He puts his face in both hands with a sigh. “They’re gonna draft me, Steve. That’s different. I’d have gone anyway.” 

“But you still chose to.” 

“You’re like a goddamn starving dog with a piece of meat when you get your mind caught on somethin,’ you know that?” 

“I’m still going to try.”

Bucky scowls at him and picks up the plates. “You couldn’t  _ not. _ You ain’t never been any different.”

Steve comes up behind him while he’s washing the dishes and wraps his arms around him. “Then why are you askin’ me to be somebody I’m not?” 

_ Because I love you more than anything. Can’t you see that?  _

He holds Steve’s hands for a few precious moments. “Because I’m scared for you. You won’t make it a day out there,” he says finally, voice shaking.  _ How dare this boy teach me how to feel,  _ he thinks. 

“I still have to try.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath, lets go of Steve’s hands, and thrusts his hips back, sending Steve skidding across the kitchen with a breathless laugh. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, eh? Why don’t you help me clean up instead.” 

“You got it, sergeant,” the little shit answers.

  
  


***

  
  


For the first time in his centuries-long existence, Bucky is called away from New York. The buzzing starts very faint, so faint he can’t even pinpoint its direction, and the next thing he knows, he’s in fucking France. 

“Uh… “ 

Thankfully, he’s not currently at home, off living ‘at the base’ - in other words, watching Steve from the rooftop across the street like some sort of sick voyeur. What else is he going to do, though? He’s not  _ actually _ in the military. And this trip definitely doesn’t count, even though the reason people go to war is to kill people, and that’s kind of what he’s doing anyway.

The buzzing is insistent, and no wonder. He’s in the middle of a battlefield with gunshots going off all around. Dying men are scattered everywhere, their comrades stuck between wanting to give them comfort in their dying breaths, and wanting to continue living. 

Bucky, incorporeal, shares no such concerns. He follows the buzzing from one man to the next, trying to grant that comfort to their souls before they’re gone. Most stare at him blank-eyed and unseeing, in shock or in so much pain they’re not even aware there’s a person next to them, let alone who he might be. Those who do recognize him are either resigned to their fate or relieved. He’s not sure which is worse. 

For ten straight hours, Bucky makes his way around the battlefields of France, helping put men to rest. He’s exhausted by the time morning light makes its way over the countryside. Home is a blink away, thank the Master; he arrives in the middle of the night, grateful that he is not limited to human methods of transportation. 

The problem is that Steve’s not there. 

_ Where could he be? _ Bucky wonders. There’s no reason Steve should leave the house in the middle of the night. 

Bucky has a bad feeling about this. 

And like he’d summoned the bastard, his Master informs him of a new assignment. There’s something sarcastic in his voice, something Bucky very much does not like. When he follows the buzzing and discovers that it leads to that same hospital in Brooklyn where he’d originally met his best and only friend, he learns what it means to feel one’s heart drop through the floor. 

The room where Steve is supposed to die is different this time around. It’s empty of hope without Sarah. The nurses barely check on him, passing by his room to visit patients with a greater chance of survival. Steve is nearly comatose, on a ventilator, and he has no close family; there isn’t much they can do for him except wait for him to die. Occasionally one will glance into his room with sad eyes; such a shame for a young man to die, especially without someone to comfort him. 

_ Like hell I’m letting him die, _ Bucky thinks.

Bucky kneels at his bedside and grabs his hand. Steve’s fragile body is burning itself from the inside. “You haven’t gotten sick like this in years. Stevie.... The hell even happened to you while I was gone? It’s barely been a month.” 

Before he can strengthen the bond between Steve’s body and soul, he hears his Master’s voice once more.  _ You are about to make a grave mistake.  _

Bucky, who had made his decision years ago, doesn’t even hesitate.  _ I don’t care.  _

_ Do you know what the penalty is for refusing me?  _

_ I’ve refused you many times by now, _ Bucky thinks.  _ But I don’t care anyway.  _

_ Is he truly worth that much to you?  _

Bucky studies Steve’s face in the sickly fluorescent light of the hospital. He’s gaunt, the sharpness of his cheekbones accented by the sterile environment. Those long, slender artist’s fingers call to mind skeletons. Bucky suppresses a shudder as he grabs one, desperate to make Steve feel warm again. 

_ You would be taking away what makes this world worth living in, _ Bucky tries to explain to the voice in his head. 

_ Suit yourself, _ his Master says. 

Bucky tries not to think about the consequences as he channels his energy into the boy, now a young man, for the third and likely final time. It’s on him, on both of them, to make sure he survives from this moment forward, because there will be no more cheating. Whatever happens to him because of his disobedience, Bucky is certain of that.

Steve is shocked to discover Bucky waiting by his bedside when he finally wakes up a few hours later. Bucky calls for the vent to be removed; he hates it, a reminder of the people he’s freed from this mortal plane. 

The truth is, he’s tired. Knowing a person, really understanding them the way he understands Steve, has changed him, for better or worse. It’s not like there aren’t other reapers that will continue to do his job when he’s gone from their ranks. It’s not like the body can survive past its expiration date anyway. The Master has proven that he won’t let it; no matter how many times Bucky gives of his essence to Steve, the price will be his ability to do so. He knows this in his heart. 

_ Just please don’t take me from him, _ he thinks, smiling and teary-eyed as Steve blinks awake. _ It’s all I ask. Don’t take away my soul.  _

Until this moment, Bucky didn’t realize he _ had _ a soul. 

“It’s funny,” Steve starts in the scratchy tone of someone who’s been on a ventilator too long, then coughs up a fucking lung right there in front of Bucky, who curses fiercely. 

“Don’t hurt yourself. Dammit, Steve.”

He glares at Steve every time he tries to talk for the next few hours. In fact, he doesn’t let him talk again until he arrives home. The nurses find it rather amusing, or they would if they weren’t utterly convinced Bucky is a ghost who’d snuck past them, since he’s unable to completely shut off the energy he exudes by his very nature.

“So what’s funny, pal?” he asks Steve while hovering over him as he gets changed into his pajamas. 

“Stop hovering,” Steve says, annoyed. 

Bucky squares his jaw. “No. What’s funny?”

Steve climbs into his bed, still shaky and trying to hide it. Bucky’s more terrified for Steve’s safety than he’s ever been. Coming straight from a war zone where he’d spent a day freeing young men’s souls - men Steve’s age - doesn’t help “Just that you’re always at my bedside when I wake up.” 

He stares at Steve, wide-eyed with shock. Does he remember that first time? He was so young; that was fifteen years ago. If he does remember, it might cause some awkward questions. Very unwanted, awkward questions. 

_ Nah, _ Bucky tries to tell himself,  _ he’s just tired and out of it. He remembers me being there for other things. Recent things. How we ‘met.’ _ Not that Steve seems bothered by it if Bucky’s wrong and Steve does remember. 

“Go to sleep before I knock your ass out again.” 

“You’re worse than ma was, you know that?” Steve grumbles before giving himself away with a yawn. 

“Uh-huh. Go to sleep.”

Steve’s out in five seconds.

  
  


***

  
  


Bucky’s always taken an interest in the sciences. It fascinates him that few humans believe in the existence of reapers or other fae, and instead turn to math and so-called critical thinking to learn about the world. He supposes acknowledging the reality of reaperhood would be distasteful for many of them; they seem happy to forget that they’ll die someday, and Bucky isn’t sure he can blame them. And it appears to be much like magical thinking; it must be when reapers are invisible to them until they are ready to leave the world. The only real sign of a reaper’s presence is the fabled chill up the spine. Nothing immutable, nothing you can prove.

Science, though. Science is proof, science works. You can see it, feel it. Touch it, taste it. Science is magic that is finally understood. 

Bucky  _ loves _ it. 

“There’s a fair comin’ up,” he tells Steve excitedly one day while reading the paper. “Stark Expo. We didn’t get a chance to go before. Wanna do it this year?” 

Steve shrugs like it’s all the same to him. “Sure.”

“Aww, c’mon pal. No enthusiasm?”

“It’s not the fair that bugs me,” Steve mutters. 

“What’s that?” 

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

Steve gives him an annoyed look, but he answers anyway. “It’s the double date you’ll no doubt set up.”

“Ah,” Bucky says, crestfallen. There isn’t much he can do about that; people see them together often enough and there are already rumors. He doesn’t want to harm Steve’s reputation further; he might even be in danger when Bucky’s not around. Bucky can beat someone’s ass if they attack them. Steve would crumple like someone stepping on a wildflower. 

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t ignore you this time. Damn girls don’t have any taste, goin’ after me instead of you.”

Steve sends him a death glare. Really, if looks could kill, he’d be dead in a heartbeat. “Stop makin’ fun of me.”

That is… an utterly bewildering statement. “Huh? I’m not.”

Steve storms out, leaving Bucky utterly baffled.

  
  


***

  
  


Bucky’s been ‘home on leave’ when the Stark Expo rolls around. He wakes up with a rush of excitement, ready to bound up to Steve and hug him because this is going to be  _ amazing,  _ but then the floor drops from underneath him. 

His powers are gone.

And what’s more, he’s  _ mortal. _

Sure, it’s subtle. An ache in one knee, a slight headache. He’s had phantom pains before, though if they’re sympathy pains for his human companion, that’s real enough for him. After all, he never really felt emotion prior to meeting Steve, either, and he knows those are real. But this is different. This is  _ real _ real. 

Bucky is no longer a reaper. He has become human. Breathing, eating, oh heavens help him,  _ shitting. _ He’ll have to do those things. They are no longer voluntary. 

_ Okay, _ he thinks, trying not to panic,  _ this isn’t so bad. Sure, I’m mortal now, but so is Stevie. I would die when he dies anyway. And the Master didn’t take me away from him.  _

It’s true - it could be a lot worse. But he will one day be visited by a reaper himself. There is no longer any choice, even if it wasn’t an idea before, either. Bucky  _ will _ die. He will feel his soul leave his body, and for the first time, he wonders where it will go. Will he be with Steve there? 

Why didn’t he ask this before? Scientific curiosity and all that.  _ You fucking fool. _

And later, he realizes the amount of shit he’s about to drown in, because it’s real now, the life he made up. It was always real, he just hadn’t known it. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, set to sail off to war tomorrow. 

There isn’t much reason to be thankful now. But at least Steve will be as safe as Bucky can make him. It will have to be enough. His only goal is to survive long enough to come home. That is all that matters. 

  
  


***

  
  


Shit on a goddamn  _ stick, _ he misses Steve. This dungeon is rank with the smell of unwashed bodies - what he wouldn’t give for a bath! It smells like illness, too, and death incoming. How many of these men will survive this war? None, if things continue like they have been. They’ve already taken a good dozen of them, dragged them down the hall and into a chamber with a heavy door that makes him wince every single time it’s slammed. And he and his companions can  _ still  _ hear the screams from the other side, screams that last hours, sometimes days, until they finally taper off into nothing. Then they’ll have a day or so to wonder who will be next before the answer is revealed. 

Bucky’s number comes up sooner than he’d like. 

He’s sure he dies at least once. He’s positive. His heart stops - he feels it, he  _ knows _ what it feels like to not have a heartbeat, goddammit - but his soul remains intact, and there is no reaper present. Is it a relief when his heart starts beating again? When the blood starts pumping and the pain comes back like a vengeful angel? 

He hangs on. A part of him, a large part of him, doesn’t want to, but the will to survive is a very strong urge. Of course he knew this about humans before, but it was an intellectual exercise. It’d never occurred to him that one day he’d understand it on a visceral level. 

Jesus Christ on a  _ pedestal, _ this shit is awful. 

Bucky doesn’t know how long they torture him. At some point, he loses track of what they even do to him, his body a mess of pain from top to bottom, unable to comprehend anything beyond a certain point. It doesn’t count for much. 

He loses track of time. It feels like days, maybe a week. He’s so far out of it, his only focus becomes name, rank, and serial number, the very things they’d taught him in boot camp -  _ how does he remember boot camp when he never actually went there? _ \- the very thing he’d laughed at when he’d heard about it from the other soldiers. Like that would stop a reaper. 

He’s not laughing now. 

And then, get this, Steve  _ fucking _ Rogers shows up. It’s not Steve, but it is. He looks different, but he doesn’t  _ feel _ different. His heart would recognize his Steve anywhere. Blind and deaf,  _ senseless, _ he’d know Steve’s presence. 

And perhaps it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever done in his strange fucking existence, but he’s tired and in the shadows of agony and utterly stunned and in love so deep he hadn’t been able to crawl out of it for nearly twenty years - he kisses Steve. Grabs him in the middle of a war zone like a fool, and lays one on him. 

Steve is shocked for all of two seconds, and then, to Bucky’s great relief, he kisses back. It’s messy, wet, Steve too eager, and it’s perfect. Because Bucky realizes that Steve has wanted this as long as he has. That Steve has been blind to Bucky’s feelings, but not to his own. His heart recognizes Bucky’s, too. 

And in that moment, Bucky realizes he has zero regrets. His entire existence has led to this moment, this unbelievable, flawless moment. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he murmurs, awestruck, as he pulls away. Steve’s lips are kiss-swollen, so  _ pink _ , fuck they have to get out of here so he can do that again. And again. And again. 

“Bucky, we met when I was eight,” Steve says with a shy, amused smile. “And I have no idea how old you were. Your age changes every time I turn around.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky moves along behind Steve for a few minutes before his big, dumb brain catches up with him. “Wait, no we didn’t. When you were eight?” 

“In the hospital.” 

He stops dead in his tracks. “What? What the  _ fuck, _ Steve?” 

“I’m Irish,” Steve explains as though that makes any sense. 

“Uh… yeah?” 

“We were raised Catholic, but the old stories of the fae don’t disappear just because the church decides it’s taking over. I know you’re a fae. I don’t know what kind you are, or… were, I guess, but I don’t care, either. Come on, you idiot, do you wanna get out of here or not?”

That gets Bucky’s ass in gear again. “You mean I could’ve been just hanging around not pretending to be human and avoiding this whole goddamn mess? Steven Grant Rogers, I swear to the Master, I am kicking your ass when this is over.” 

Steve turns around and grins, happy and wild like he was always meant to be. “Try me, pal.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Your fuckin’ hat bugs me.”

It’s a cold morning in Britain and the barracks are bombed to hell and back, so there’s nowhere for them to sleep except their tents. It’s  _ annoying _ . Bucky is annoyed. And Dum-Dum’s fucking hat is stupid. 

Dum-Dum grabs his hat like it’s at risk of flying away, or maybe being vaporized by Bucky’s glare. “The hell you have against a hat, Mistress Barnes?” 

Normally, Bucky would growl at that, or even chase Dum-Dum out of camp, but he’s too fuckin’ tired for horsing around. It’s been a long winter and they need a break. So he settles for a scowl and calls it good. 

Dum-Dum is apparently also feeling ornery today, because he gets up with a scoff and wanders off to see about coffee. Falsworth, who’d joined them at the fire, chews contentedly on a twig like some kind of caveman. 

“You know,” he starts, and he sounds level, but Bucky notices that he doesn’t stop staring at the fire, avoiding Bucky’s eyes, “it took me a lot less time to break down. I don’t know if it was the war or what. I wonder how many of us just got tired of doing it. If something about mass death makes our souls tired, or we empathize with them. I don’t know. I just look at the two of you and wonder why it took you so damn long.” 

Bucky scrutinizes Falsworth, who is still not looking in his direction. Maybe he doesn’t know if Bucky will freak out about this revelation. But Bucky is honestly goddamn  _ tired, _ exhausted in his very soul, and besides, it seems Falsworth is in the same boat, or rather, he was at one point in time. “Does it happen to all of us, then? Eventually?”

“I reckon so. You ain’t the first I’ve met.” 

“How can you tell? I wouldn’t have guessed.” 

Falsworth finally lifts his gaze. Barnes stares steadily back. “Nah, you’d have figured it out eventually. You’re just goddamn slow, so let me ask again: Why’d it take you so damn long?” 

“He was sick,” Bucky says with a shrug. “I saved his ass three times before… Before. Twice because of illness, and once he nearly got himself beat to death, if you can believe it.” 

Falsworth shakes his head ruefully. “Oh, I believe it.”

“What about you? Why Dugan?” 

“I met him when he joined the British forces. A year… and a half ago, I guess. I’m new at this human thing, too.” 

“How long?”

“Just before we got captured.” 

So really new at it, then. “How long were you around before?” Bucky asks, genuinely curious now. 

“Late nineteenth century. Not long.”

“And why Dugan?” Bucky asks, softer. “His goddamn hat’s fuckin’  _ stupid. _ ”

Falsworth grins. He looks like a madman. They all do, these days. “I don’t wanna go on without him. We ain’t, you know, like you two. I mean no offense,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “It’s just friendship with us, though. But he’s my soulmate.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Falsworth stirs the fire for a few minutes. Then Steve walks out of his tent -  _ their _ tent - and glances Bucky’s way. His expression gentles for a moment, the lines of stress on his face evening out in favor of fondness. 

“Do you ever regret it?” Falsworth asks, watching Steve walk away. “Think it was stupid, giving up immortality like that?” 

Bucky watches him go, too, this beefed-up version of that sickly little guy he’d fallen for a lifetime ago. 

“Not for a second.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the mods of this bang for being so fucking chill and running such a drama-free discord. You guys are the real MVPs here. 
> 
> Comments and kudos always welcome, thanks for reading!


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